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If you'll gather 'round me, people, |
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A story I will tell |
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'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw, |
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Oklahoma knew him well. |
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It was in the town of Shawnee, |
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On a Saturday afternoon, |
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His wife beside him in a wagon |
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As into town they rode. |
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There a deputy sheriff approached him |
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In a manner rather rude, |
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Using vulgar words of language, |
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An' his wife she overheard. |
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Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain, |
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And the deputy grabbed his gun; |
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In the fight that followed |
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He laid that deputy down. |
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Now, he took to the hills and timber |
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To live a life of shame; |
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Every crime in Oklahoma |
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Was added to his name. |
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He took to the trees and timber |
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On the Canadian river shore |
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And pretty Boy found a welcome |
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At every farmer's door |
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Others tell you of a stranger |
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That come to beg a meal, |
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And underneath the napkin |
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Left a thousand dollar bill. |
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T'was in Oklahoma City, |
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It was on a Christmas Day, |
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There come a whole car load of groceries |
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And a letter that did say: |
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You say that I'm an outlaw, |
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You say that I'm a thief. |
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Well, here's a Christmas dinner |
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For the families on relief. |
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Well, it's through this world I've rambled |
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I've seen lots of funny men; |
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Some will rob you with a six-gun, |
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And some with a fountain pen. |
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Well it's through this world you ramble, |
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It's through this world you roam, |
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You won't never see an outlaw |
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Drive a family from their home. |
